With
Reverent Lips
Hardrock 2007

Editor's Note: This is long. But so is Hardrock. John describes this fantastic run in great detail. We think it's worth your time. Read this, and you might get an idea why the "Hardrockers" are so fanatic.

"There are now dozens of ultra runners
who have a good working knowledge of the course. Many of them are
more than willing to lie about the course details and difficulty"
- taken directly from the 2007 Hardrock 100 Mile Runner’s
manual. Wonderful! I’d waited three years for the opportunity
to run here. In the days leading up to the event I enjoyed the
company of my fellow runners and listened to their tales about the
mountains. I’d find out soon enough what was and was not true.
As I attempt to recount my experience and speak from memory know that
any embellishment or exaggeration I could offer will pale in
comparison to the reality of this event. Hardrock’s reputation
needs none of that; the truth of the matter is amazing enough and
speaks for itself. And yes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . it rocks!

Hardrock 100 Miler. This and the other pictures on this page taken by Jack Jewell.

I
have been attempting to write about this year’s Hardrock 100
Mile Endurance Run since race’s end on July 15th. I blame
my writer’s block on awe and wonder and maybe a little
laziness. I’ve started and stopped more times than I can count.
The wonder of the journey through and over the San Juan Mountains
(also known as North America’s Alps) in southwest Colorado
overwhelms any writing skill I possess. The urge is to describe
everything yet know I cannot. It’s just too big. The mountains
are too high and the trail too rugged and long. There is no way that
I can adequately describe the splendor and the diversity of the wild
flowers thriving in the high open meadows or along roaring mountain
streams filled with snow melt or growing in the nooks and crannies
atop 13,000 foot passes. Awe inhibits my attempts at accurately
describing the people who embrace this challenge. How do I depict
what the cold dark stark beauty of a moonless heaven filled with
stars and the rising Milky Way feels like at midnight; eighteen hours
into the run? I’ll try. I’ll try to tell of how it feels
to realize that with the dawn on Hardrock’s second morning
resurrection of sorts begins and that indeed a brand new day lay
ahead; this in spite of the struggles through the previous night. So
"the hell" with writer’s block, I will tell as best I
can.

I have nothing but admiration for those conceiving of the
idea of this endurance run and then dedicating it to the memory of
the rugged prospectors that searched for gold, silver and other
precious minerals in these mountains. By the end of the 19th century
thousands of miners sought riches that lay hidden between the peaks
and valleys near Silverton, Colorado where Hardrock takes place. The
run follows foot and burro trails and old wagon road that were built
for transporting materials to the mines and then ore to market.
Evidence of once working mines, stamp mills, tramways, and smelters
as well as the decaying cabins miners once lived in can still be see
as the Hardrock runner traverses from start to finish. I was
fascinated by these examples of man’s sheer strength of will
imposed upon the land.

This run describes itself as offering a
graduate level challenge for endurance runners. It is unlike any
other 100-mile run I have partaken of including ultramarathons that
serve as a qualifiers for the event’s entry. I’ll mention
those differences during this attempt at painting a picture of 100+
miles in Colorado. It is a course that offers extremes in altitude;
from a low of 7,700 ft to a high of 14,000+ ft with the average
elevation for the entire 100+ miles being 11,300 ft above sea level,
much of it exposed and above the tree line. This event offers
extremes in steepness; some climbs and descents are as much as a 25%
grade. The land is remote and can be lonely, it does not take long
for one hundred or so runners to become spread out over the distance.
Near vertical cliffs complete with hundreds of feet of sheer drop-off
are run using narrow shelf trails that had been somehow cut along the
mountain’s side. Large stands of evergreens provide shelter for
herds of elk hundreds in number. I could continue to write that it is
different . . . . . or I could simply say it is Hardrock..

The
course takes the runner through four different life zones. Because of
the "wild" reputation this race carries runners are
expected to gain enough knowledge about the course so they can follow
it without the help of trail markers. This worried me as I do not
have the best sense of direction. Hoping to overcome that I
accompanied Charlie Thorn, one of the original Hardrock runners on
eight days as he marked sections of the course. This was part of my
"pre race" acclimation. Instead of the normal "taper"
leading up to a race; I and many of my companions hiked 8-to18 miles
a day while Charlie and his trail marking partner John Cappis set the
course. During those hikes Charlie would name the flora, speak of the
fauna and talk the history of the region, in particular as it
pertained to mining. It would have been nice to come to the starting
line on race day completely rested but for this "newbie"
the benefits of seeing much of the course beforehand far outweighed
any advantage rest would have offered. I also was able to begin
understanding the theory for marking or not marking trail.

On
a Friday morning, July the 13th at 6AM to be exact, Hardrock 2007
began. Outside of the Silverton High School Gym the field consisting
of 17 women and 117 men; 18 to over 70 years of age waited. The
100.5-mile run would end where it began there in town at an elevation
of 9300 ft. It would begin at the "Hardrock" placed
outside the school and end with the runner ‘s return and their
kissing that rock. I had been sleeping in a tent at 10,500 feet for
two weeks prior, attempting to acclimate to the San Juan Mountain
"skinny air". I’d moved into Silverton; total
resident population of 500 on Wednesday greatly appreciating a real
bed and flush toilet. It was a simple 2-block walk to the school’s
gym on race morning where the 134 runners and associated well wishers
awaited the hour and the word - "Go"! The energy felt from
runners and others present before the start was intoxicating. I was
"buzzing". I was ready.

The word was spoken and we
began. After a quick left onto its only paved road we left town.
The deal agreed upon was that we would return within 48 hours. The
first mile or so were gifts of gently rolling trail alongside the
Animas River (El Rio de Las Animas Perdidas, or the River of Lost
Souls). I did not feel lost yet said a quick prayer hoping I’d
not be. There were beaver dams to skirt along the willows growing
near the river and in the first two miles we passed the remains of
two mines, the Lackawanna and Mayflower. Up and up onto the jeep road
we went to Arrastra Gulch and then to the Little Giant Trail. The
first 11,000 ft mark came and went as we moved up and out of Little
Giant Basin. Runners were strewn-out ahead and behind me as we
climbed and I sucked wind. The field spread out as far as my eye
could see. The cloudless morning skies were the perfect backdrop for
what lay ahead. The wildflowers in the meadows seemed to smile.
During that first climb on the trail one of my heroes, John Dewalt,
71 years young passed me while on his way to his to his 12th Hardrock
finish. We were moving towards Dives Basin and the trail that was cut
across the steep east face of the next peak. More from our runner’s
manual, the following: "In low snow years, this wide trail in
no challenge at all. However, in heavy snow years, there is extremely
hard steep snow or ice. For three of the runs, steps have been cut in
the snow. About a hundred yards below the trail, the steep grass
slope disappears over cliffs that are several hundred feet high. A
slip here could be fatal. Exposure, acrophobia. IF THE SNOW
CONDITIONS WARRANT IT, THERE WILL BE A FIXED ROPE. (Note we have not
yet had to use a rope here.") This year snow was not an
issue but still this was Hardrock.

What goes up does come down
and down we went after those first seven miles. Atop Dives-Little
Giant Pass (13000 ft) we were offered a clear view down to the aid
station. I moved quickly along a well-worn animal trail where at that
moment gravity seemed to be my friend, it would fight me soon enough.
Closer towards the Cunningham Gulch Aid station the ruins of the
collapsed Shenandoah mine came and went. The trail switched back and
forth bringing us closer to aid. During the descent into the timber
the next climb up Green Mountain, complete with waterfall appeared in
view. Over and over again during the run one reward for completing an
ascent was the view of the next climb; sometimes that was good and at
other times damn scary and discouraging. Aid was earned after wading
Cunningham Creek. Without the help of the two people waiting for me
at the Cunningham aid station completing my run would have been near
impossible. Jack Jewel from Boulder, Colorado would serve as my pacer
from mile 42 until 82. I met and ran with Jack on two different
occasions at the Massanutten Mountain 100 Mile Trail Run. Jack found
himself deep on the waiting list for this year’s event and
offered to accompany me on my journey should he not get the call to
"suit up" and run come race day. I find myself feeling very
close to other runners who I have shared trail and distance with in
spite of spending only hours with them. That is the case with Jack
only now that bond is stronger. The other person who made this
possible was Teresa Sukiennicki. Teresa and I have been many things
to one another over the last three years, she has seen me up at my
best and at my worst. On this adventure she would act as crew when
logistics allowed and then bring me in across the last 18 miles. I
cannot say enough about both their efforts, I am in as much awe of
her and Jack as anyone or anything Hardrock exposed me to.

Aid
was taken in the form of fruit and drink, well wishes were accepted
then it was time to climb moving up through the meadow filled with
columbine and Indian paintbrush. I was now on the steep Green
Mountain trail climbing between two bands of cliff along a narrow
shelf where at one point there is a near straight down 600-foot
vertical drop. While switchbacking along this high open meadow I
again realized just hard I was breathing – very hard and
deeply. I knew I must follow the advice of those who have done this
before and not fight the mountain. That became one of my mantras -
"do not fight the mountain, accept it". When breathing
became labored I stopped, put my hands on my knees until I recovered.
Later in the race I used a prayer my friend Deb Pero taught me, "God,
You pick up my feet and I’ll put ‘em down". There
were no sheep grazing in the Green Mountain Basin at 12,000 feet this
year. I thought that might be a cool thing to see. I’d heard
that in years past when the race was run in the clockwise direction
and Green Mountain came at 88 miles rather than 12 miles runners
found that sheep had knocked down trail markers and the reflection of
headlamps from their "beady little eyes" lent some
confusion to those trying to find their way towards the finish line.
Here I found myself for the first but not last time on the
Continental Divide. I learned that the Divide is the line of summits
in this part of the country that separate streams flowing toward the
Gulf of California and Pacific from those flowing toward the Gulf of
Mexico, Hudson Bay and the Arctic Ocean. Running here has made me
want to learn more geography and geology and then I would know stuff
like this - while on the course’s second climb over Green
Mountain the headwaters of the Rio Grande River could be seen. Doubts
about my ability and capability began surfacing more and more and it
was still very early in the event. I’d covered a little more
than 12 miles and the climbs were knocking it out of me. As I crested
Green Mountain I came upon two of my favorite runner folk, Deb Pero
and Joe Prusaitis. Both are Hardrock veterans who were taking a
break. Joe could tell that I was stressing and he told me to relax.
He said that he views Hardrock as a war to be won with these first
two climbs and the next to come as battles he chooses to lose. He
reminded me not to lose faith and that all would be well as long as I
continued placing one foot in front of the other. I promised to
remember that. I thanked him and left feeling somewhat reassured.
After the Green Mountain/Stony Pass ridge the next climb was seen as
we headed towards Canby Mountain (13000 ft) with Stony Pass between
us and it and vistas of the Grenadier range and Weminuche Wilderness
behind.

John on the "second pitch"

As the elevation profile of the course
illustrates it is either up or down. Over the entire course the total
vertical ascent is 33,124 feet with an equal amount of descent.
Thirteen ridges of over 12,000 ft in elevation are climbed. Buffalo
Boy Ridge came and the third climb was accomplished followed by a
drop cross-country into Maggie Gulch and the aid station at 15.3
miles, a mere 11840 feet above the sea. Approaching Maggie Gulch near
the remnants of the Intersection Mill and Mine I met and chatted it
up with the youngest member of the Hardrock running tribe, James
Wrublik. Both he and his father were running this year, just one more
very cool piece of the event.

Maggie-Pole Creek Pass came as
the fourth climb. It was soon after this climb near the stand of
pines off in the distance that we saw a herd of elk while marking
trail the previous week. There was no evidence of these animals on
the horizon or on the trail, which was a good thing for elk have the
reputation of stomping on trail markers and eating the attached
ribbon. Minimal aid was offered at the Pole Creek aid station but it
was aid and very much appreciated; appreciated more when understood
that all supplies had been packed in by horse. 20 minutes before
reaching the station it had begun to rain and hail. I watched the
storm approach, complete with thunder and lightening but at least the
flashes in the sky looked like they were far, far away. I grew cold
as the rain began to soak through my clothing. I had dumped many of
the supplies I had started with realizing that I was carrying too
much weigh in my pack. My rain gear was one piece I gave my crew to
hold. But I did have a thin disposable raincoat folded up tight and
small for use in emergency. My hands did not want to work as they
should because they were cold and I waited until reaching the aid
station before attempting to unwrap it and put it on. With the
plastic on I felt much like a "sandwich" encased in a
baggie but it did the job of keeping the rain off me. I took some
drink, refilled my camelback bladder and was off again onto the trail
now littered with hailstones the size of my fingernails. It was 1:21
in the afternoon when I left Pole Creek. I had come into that station
8 minutes before that taking over 7 hours to run/walk 19.6 miles.
This is Hardrock.

I was now on my way to Cataract-Pole Pass,
the fifth climb. Looking down from that pass Cataract Gulch was seen
and the pyramid outline of Sunshine Peak at 14,001 ft and surprise,
surprise, we were not climbing it but instead the goal was to get to
it’s base and the ghost town site of Sherman Cross. We passed
Cataract Lake (just one of the many sparkling high lakes seen during
the run) and this section of the course was one of the most enjoyable
of the day(s). I was feeling pretty good now that the rain stopped
and was actually running well downhill and knew that would continue
until I reached Sherman. Moving cross-country at 12,000 ft the trail
became obvious and because of that was unmarked. I was heading down
towards Cataract Creek and it’s spectacular falls. I’d
wade the water four times as we; the creek and I meandered down
towards Sherman. Wet feet were just something to be accepted
along with many other Hardrock charms. 800 yards from the aid station
a volunteer asked me for my number then radioed ahead that I would
soon arrive. When I did I was directed to a chair where my drop bag
awaited me along with offers of food and drink, very nice treatment!
I gratefully accepted pieces of turkey and copious amounts of ice
cold chocolate milk and relaxed a bit as I changed shoes and socks. I
sensed that I was at lower altitude as breathing was easier and
indeed I was at 9640 feet and 28.7 miles into it at 4:10 in the
afternoon. I have learned not to fixate on the distance and time
remaining early in ultras. But I did a quick calculation and then
tried to put that math behind me – it would be more than 36
hours before the task was complete. Yes it was better not to think
too hard on that nor worry. I took a 12-minute reprieve from my
journey knowing what lay ahead. The next manned aid station was
almost 15 miles away. Between here and there lay clouds.

Leaving
Sherman with a full belly and camelback I briskly walked down a dirt
road watching for the faint trail up the bank to an old mill site.
For the next quarter mile the course was hard to follow and I got off
trail for a moment or two but remembering the general direction was
up found it easily enough. I passed an old mill and an abandoned
wagon road looking for a game trail, then more road and more game
trail leading to the Cinnamon Pass Road. This was more a rugged and
rough jeep trail than road but perhaps that is just my western New
York showing. I reveled on the three miles of it used while on my way
to Burrows Park and then onto the Grizzly Gulch trail.

Grizzly
Gulch is the most popular trail to Handies Peak, my next goal and is
one of five 14,000 ft. peaks in the area. It is indeed a beautiful
trail and off to my left was the spectacular view of the roaring
Silver Creek and it’s valley. The trail led me through spruce,
fir and aspen before dumping me onto the open tundra that was
carpeted with wildflowers of every color imaginable. In the midst of
this rugged climb into what seemed like the clouds doubt resurfaced.
For once above the timberline I could see my target. There was
Handies complete with what appeared to be little specks moving across
its face and peak on the distance horizon. I can honestly say that I
felt like weeping in the midst of this sight. Was I really expected
to go up there? Was this part of the deal? Would the mountain break
me here? Isn’t the chance of being beaten by the mountain
or the distance what brings us to the ultra? What would be the point
if success were guaranteed? Ah the conversations I had with myself
distracted me somewhat and I remembered a warning I had heard many
times in this life, "be careful what you wish for". I would
continue as best I could for as long as I could. I kept reminding
myself that yes I had been wishing and hoping for just this chance
for three years now. Today at this moment I was lucky enough to be
where I was and I refused nurture any to regret. Up the switchbacks I
went with runners ahead and behind me then onto the steeper, looser
dirt trail above the saddle. I was getting close but remembered that
cresting Handies from this direction involved climbing a "false
summit" so I was not surprised that there was still more to come
before reaching the rounded top of Handies Peak. So 36.8 miles into
this event I was treated to an unbelievable 360-degree vista of the
San Juan Mountains and knew that at 8:30 on that Friday evening there
was nowhere I’d rather be. With the view drank in and spirits
revived it was time to leave the course’s sixth pass and move
down into American Basin.

It would be dark by the time I
reached aid and my pacer at Grouse Gulch. I found that I could run
the downhills if only in the most conservative of fashion, a fall
here would not be good. Care was taken. I was looking to skirt Sloan
Lake that I remember sparkling like a blue diamond on trail marking
day. The trip into Grouse was not all downward fun and games, some
climb was required up into another saddle to the American Grouse
Pass, the 7th peak over 12,000 ft. There was snow here and it was not
without charm. The cold felt good on my tired feet and it was a soft
reprieve from the hard rocks of mountain. I did take a moment to turn
around to see from where I’d come and I found that beautifully
disturbing – had I really been up there? The conversation with
myself continued. I ran down onto an abandoned jeep road full of
loose rock and stone, switchbacking six or eight times. I could see
aid station lights glowing against the dark backdrop, a very welcomed
sight. I crossed the bridge over the Animas River and found both
Teresa and Jack waiting for me. It was 10:27 PM. Into a chair I went,
Jack took the bladder from my camelback and returned it full. Teresa
offered me smiles, lunchmeat, fruit and soup. My shoes and socks were
changed and I reveled in the motionless act of sitting. 21 minutes
flew by, Jack was suited up and ready. It was time to go.

We
moved up the jeep road with Engineer’s Pass kind of being the
object of our attention. I found I could walk the reasonable inclines
quite well and we passed a number of people. It was a welcome change
having a trail companion. Although night obscured the view I knew
that in the canyon below lay the remains of the long abandoned mining
town of Animas Forks. At 12600 ft the road was carved along the west
face of Engineer Mountain and headed towards Oh Point Road. "Oh
Boy, the 8th climb!" Care had to be taken here not to get off
course. The road we had been enjoying up to this point curves around
dropping into Engineer Pass – not where we had to go. I
remembered from trail marking day that a not so obvious sharp right
turn was required onto a steep cross-country slope over and down into
the meadow. We found our mark and began the descent to the Engineer
Aid station. Here I realized that I was quite thirsty and drank
deeply from my camelback. Water seemed not to satiate me. I promised
myself something thirst quenching as soon as aid was offered. Minimum
aid was offered there at the remote station as all supplies were as
in other remote stations packed it. It is funny or maybe not so funny
but for as many times as I have run through the night I often neglect
my electrolyte needs once the sun goes down. My tummy was a bit upset
and full of water yet I did not make the connection that I was low on
salt. I accepted orange slices when aid workers offered them instead
of chips or pretzels. I carried salt yet kept it in one of my
pouches. Some running lesson must be relearned time and time
again.

We were encouraged to leave Engineer’s as soon as
possible and did after thanking the kind folks there. Within minutes
of leaving I began puking on my shoes. This was not good. Only half
the race distance had been spanned and now I was emptying the
contents of my belly in knee buckling fashion. Damn! Trying to
distract myself from the nausea I told Jack what I knew of the course
before us and that we would be on good trail for quite a while and
that remnants of the Yellow Jack Mine complete with a still standing
cabin was near. Bear Creek was on our left as we moved slowly into
the narrow and steep canyon. Care had to be taken while wading the
many streams feeding the creek because to the slippery feel of algae
growing on the rocks. Moving deeper towards the lowest point on this
year’s course dramatic drops of over 400 ft into the gorge were
skirted. Making use of 13 switchbacks we dropped over 1000 ft in
elevation quickly. After 20 hours on the trail sounds heard in the
night can trigger the weirdest associations. Just before dropping
down to the highway 550 tunnel I heard what sounded like china plates
breaking. That was the sound of the runner ahead of us on the "shale
trail". Pieces of fragile shale, some as large as dinner dishes
littered the path and with each footfall a kind of "tingling"
or "crackling" was be heard as they broke. I thought it
quite humorous in spite of my nausea and the looks of concern from
Jack every time I noisily emptied my gut onto the trail.

Lower
and lower on the course we went down to the Uncompahgre River Dam
service road and over a very big pipe coming from the dam using the
wooden stairs provided. I continued to vomit every time I tried
drinking or eating and felt perfectly horrible. The town of Ouray was
close as we passed the solid looking stone building once used to
house mining explosives. Aid came in Ouray City Park at 56.6 miles,
7680 ft and for this runner at 5:10 on Saturday morning, a little
more than 23 hours after his start. Yikes! Most of the 8 miles before
had been a blur. What I wanted most after a bathroom was to simply
sit and close my eyes. I could not tolerate the thought of eating or
drinking anything. I knew enough not to get too comfortable or lie
down on a cot or the ground. I accepted the blanket offered me and
wrapped up in it after finding a chair inside a large tent next to a
space heater. I asked to be awoken in 30 minutes. I came to with
Teresa saying my name and patting my shoulder. Yes I would try eating
some turkey breast if only I could have another 15 minutes of sleep.
Teresa’s frown told me what I knew was right – I had to
eat and get up and continue soon if there was any chance of my coming
across the finish line in the allotted time. I still wanted to
continue, wanted to finish what had been started. At that moment the
chances were that I would fail if I could not get a handle on my
nausea. While Teresa got food for me Joe Prusaitis’s best
friend and pacer appeared and asked me what I was doing in that
chair. "I’m so sick Paul. I can’t keep anything
down" was my reply. He then simply stated the obvious and saved
my race. "You’re low on electrolytes. Take these now!"
The light went on in my head and I knew he was right. "Thanks!"
I swallowed the two capsules he offered and promised that I would pay
closer attention to my salt needs. If my body were to process food
and drink I needed to stabilize the electrolyte content in my body -
simple. Some solid food was eaten and Jack was roused from his short
nap on a picnic table. I would try. I would do my best to remember
that I had never died from an upset belly and I would have faith that
fortune would change once the sun rose and the sodium and potassium
my body craved was replenished.

We left at 6:26 AM. Time had
slipped away! I have never before spent 76 minutes in an aid station,
but then I have never done anything like Hardrock before. The ninth
pass of the run would come 11.1 miles later. Reaching there would
entail climbing over 5400 ft. I did my best to "fake" being
in good spirits leaving Ouray and told Teresa that I would see her
again sometime in the afternoon. Walking out of Ouray Jack and I
smiled at the doe and fawn feeding from a flower box next to a small
home. And not surprisingly I began to feel better and better as the
day dawned. I could still hike the gradual uphills at a decent clip
and as the morning blossomed distance was covered. Jack shared with
me tales of a recent trip to Africa as he snapped photos of the
gorges and old mines we passed. Jeeps, touring vehicles and
4-wheelers drove by on their way up onto the mountain and we waved.
Following the signs toward Yankee Boy Basin and Imogene Pass we
passed the Camp Bird Mine with it’s many still standing
buildings. Above Sneffels Creek the road had been blasted out of the
cliffs making me marvel over and over again at what man can do when
his mind is put to it. The sun and my spirits rose higher. I
continued to feel better and drank from my pack, ate peanuts, some
gummy candies, jerky and Gu I had brought and I remembered to swallow
salt, lots of it!

The Governor Basin Aid Station arrived
unexpectedly and that was a treat. There we learned that Scott Jurek
had been the first runner through just before 11PM the previous
night. The strength and speed of the front-runners always amazes me.
Following the markers we turned steeply up a snow covered slope to
what once was the dump of the Virginius Mine. Then to the upper road
to the Virginius mine that was clear for the most part with the
minimum of snow and was easily traversed. Then again the course got
interesting. It was cross-country up to Virginius Pass; a narrow
notch in the ridge at 13,100 ft. Three steep pitches brought us
there. All were partially snow covered but certainly not as badly as
they could have been based on what I’ve learned about previous
year’s runs. The first pitch crosses a series of mine dumps. I
found it best to stay on the snow where there was better traction. It
was on that snow that I saw something I’d never witnessed
before. There were spiders scurrying across the white surface.
Snow spiders? I moved across that first pitch I watched what looked
like large robins chasing and feasting on those eight-legged
snowbound bugs. After the first pitch the grade leveled allowing me
to catch my breath. The second was a little harder due to the very
loose nature of the rock and dirt crossed. After this pitch the
terrain again flattened some and we were then looking directly up the
chute at Virginius Pass. Runners were ahead of us and we watched them
struggle up. It was a simple task but not an easy one, just climb up
straight and grab onto the fixed rope there should that seem like a
good idea. I thought so and before I knew it we were there at the
67.7-mile mark – 2/3 of the run completed at just after 11 AM,
29 hours after my start. It was surreal to say the least.

Aid Station at Virginius Pass

Telluride
resident Chuck Kroger, who has since become a regular participant in
the run, started the aid station on Virginius, the 9th pass in 1992.
Now a group of Chuck’s friends from Telluride carry on the
tradition and backpack supplies up to the minimal aid station into
there. In my opinion theirs is one of the more remarkable efforts of
this event. The windswept pass is barely wide enough for their
shelters and they had been up for many hours before my arrival. We
took a moment to say hello, appreciate the view and then left by
dropping 200 feet steeply down the gully into Marshall Basin then
onto trail through the scree. This was another happy part of the run,
a function of the downward trail. I had regained a buffer of time
having arrived at Virginius earlier than projected and confidence had
returned. The drop down into Telluride was 4400 ft and I allowed
gravity to work for me. The sun shined and the breeze blew, the
flowers seem to speak in living colors as the tree line returned. The
town soon came into view, as did the canyon we would travel through
after the aid station. A large white canopy marked the station’s
location. It felt strange to be in a town and again on a street. Over
the bridge across the San Miguel River and almost 73 miles had been
covered. I felt great!

The Telluride station was a cheerful
place. I sat and Teresa brought me my dropbag. I treated myself to a
change in shirt and socks and ate more lunchmeat and some fruit and
drank a coke. My camelback was refilled with water and I felt quite
content. It was 12:41 PM on Saturday and at that moment I felt that I
was certain of finishing this thing barring the unexpected. I dawdled
here trying as best I could to ignore being told from many directions
by many caring people that I should leave. I did at 1:04 PM telling
Teresa that we would see her at the 82-mile mark in Chapman Gulch
where she would take over the pacing duties from Jack.

Walking
briskly out and through the soccer fields near the station I smiled
hearing sounds of the "real world"; in this case the
cheerful noise from youth skateboarding competition taking place in
the cement bowl designed for that activity. As we climbed out of town
I saw the biggest beaver house I’ve ever seen off to my right
in a small lake. Maybe the beaver were town mascots? We shared dirt
road with smiling pedestrians for the next 2 miles before turning
onto the Wasatch Trail complete with the expected Hardrock steep
climbs and switchbacks. This was the first time during the run that I
felt warm. We criss-crossed Bear Creek a number of times always
stopping to splash cold water on our faces. I dunked my hat in each
time accepting the fogging up of my sunglasses as payment for the
cool reprieve. We used the footbridge just before the Nellie Mine to
get across the steep rock face having been warned to take care should
we suffer from acrophobia. I told Jack that I was not afraid of
spiders and he only groaned in response. A few sentences ago I
mentioned my confidence in reaching the finish line back in Silverton
barring any surprises. The unexpected came in the form of the Wasatch
Saddle and then Oscar’s Pass, parts of the course I’d not
seen before. I had not accompanied those marking this trail so
everything was new to me. Surrounded by the rugged beauty there I
again felt that I was winding and wearing down. I found myself
stopping often with hands on knees waiting to recover enough to begin
again. The 4400 ft climb over 8 miles seemed to go on forever. The
views were incredible and I kept turning around fascinated with
seeing where we had come from. The valley behind was ablaze in color,
from the white of the snow melting, feeding the churning creeks to
the blues of the columbines and the yellows, reds, and pinks of
unnamed wildflowers growing midst the grey and red rock and dotting
the green grassy meadow. I’d see runners behind me and thank my
Higher Power that I was not there. I saw those ahead and wanted to
catch them. We met two runners descending the saddle, a young lady
and man out for an afternoon run on the mountain and they wished us
well. A pretty blonde woman pushing her mountain bike down one very
technical area also bid us good day. I enjoyed seeing these "earth
people". I slowed down and staggered at times and asked Jack how
far he thought until we crested. He was the perfect companion that
day never lying to me. Although he could not accurately judge and
answer me he replied that Oscar’s Pass was at 13000 ft and well
above the tree line. Since we were stilling climbing through pines we
had a ways to go. With that info I paid closer attention to my
surroundings and eventually there were fewer and fewer trees and more
and more snow. The top would come and it did. Crossing the snowfields
I glissaded down into Bridal Veil Basin. That was chilly fun
gathering up snow in my shorts during the slide downhill. At the
bottom I shook the white stuff out and laughed or maybe giggled for
34 hours into this I was getting a bit "twisted". One more
snowfield to cross before reaching Oscar’s Pass, the 10th
climb. Yes! But . . . . . . . . . . directly across from us in the
distance we could look into Swamp Canyon and the saddle at the head
of the dreaded Swamp-Grant Pass, the next climb. While viewing what
was to come I felt a chill ran down my spine but there was no need to
worry about what lay ahead yet, I’d remain living in the moment
as long as I could, it was relatively safe there. We kind of ran down
the remains of the steep rugged jeep road consisting of large red
rocks that moved beneath our feet. Switchbacks helped bring us down
about 2800 ft back into the trees and nearer Chapman Gulch and it’s
aid station. It was time to change socks and pacers, to eat and issue
some half-hearted braggadocio now that I was sitting down and
breathing well. It was about 6:30 PM and Teresa was ready and I
predicted a finishing time of 4 AM or 9 ½ hours hence, maybe
sooner. At times I marvel at the stupid things that come from my
mouth.

I thanked Jack for all he’d done and promised to
see him back in Silverton. We left on the jeep road then quickly onto
the trail. From our runner’s manual: "After 0.5 miles,
turn right [WSW] off road onto trail. Watch carefully for this turn
off. It is on a level spot in the fir and spruce. (If you find
yourself getting into willows and nearing the water in Swamp Canyon,
you missed the trail turn off. Go back and find it.)". OK?
Got that? We did not miss the trail and found the high meadow filled
with skunk cabbage while following the patchy path into the
rockslide. Only at Hardrock would a rockslide obviously be part of
the course. I was breathing quite hard again and stopping more than I
am proud of. We continued to move into and out of rock glaciers
knowing that these piles of stone could be leg breakers. At the base
of the final ¼ mile climb we stopped dead in our tracks. By
then there were about six to eight of us conjugating here trying to
triangulate and choose their easiest way up to Grant Swamp Pass. The
climb is all about very loose scree. I remembered from the
trail-marking day that it seemed that I’d go up two or three
steps only to slide back down one or two. And I remembered how hard
it had been on relatively fresh legs. It was dusk now and I wanted up
and over the 11th pass before darkness fell. But still we all seemed
to wait and wonder until Teresa found her mark and began scurrying up
in switchback fashion. She moved across the face of the last piece of
the mountain in one direction all the while moving up and then back
across the other side and back over and over again. It seemed like
the logical way up and I followed, as did most of those waiting
below. At times shouts would come down from her or from others and me
to those below to watch out as one of us had loosened rock and it was
on its way down. No one was affected and all arrived safe and sound
if not more than a bit weary from the effort.

Below was the
turquoise colored Ice Lake, shrouded as darkness approached but there
in my memory as beautiful as it was at midday a week ago. Behind us
was the stunning vista of Swamp Canyon and Oscar’s Pass. It is
a very special place with spectacular views ahead and behind. More
special because 100 yards around the bend lay the Joel Zucker
memorial plate mounted on the face of a rock. After stopping a moment
to speak to Joel I followed the others down the loose stone along
faint animal trail. We were coming down fast targeting the ridge to
the left side of Island Lake. Then onto the cross-country Kamm
traverse named after Ulrich Kamm who suggested using this route based
on some hundred-year old maps he obtained after his 1993 run. One
section of the course I dreaded would have to be faced very soon. Of
everything I’d seen during the trail marking days crossing Ice
Lake Stream bothered me the most. It simply looked treacherous. It
looked dangerous. It looked ready to eat any weary runner who
misstepped. At the bottom of our descent the stream lie filled with
avalanche debris; broken trees and branches all helter skelter. There
were options on how to get from one side to the other, none that I
particularly liked but that was beside the point. The goal was to get
across without breaking any bones or worse. Last year one runner
scouting during the course marking was badly injured here when the
fallen tree he was on shifted dumping him in the water breaking his
ribs. I chose to ignore the logs that could be used as a makeshift
bridge and instead forded the stream on the right side of the trail.
The water was cold and I slowly worked my way across stepping over
the fallen timber and sharp broken branches, carefully placing each
foot down not knowing for sure how deep the water was. I expected to
be thrilled and relieved with my success reaching the other side but
that emotion was clouded by bone-deep fatigue and worry surfacing
once again. I was moving as best I could yet using too much time and
doubting whether we were really on course. Teresa was confident that
we were. I worked on having a little more faith that all would be
well. We were searching for an abandoned jeep road; it came, as did
the KT aid station.

Worry soon blossomed into full-blown panic
when I realized that it had taken me 4 hours and 17 minutes to go
these last seven miles; that would be in excess of 36 minutes/mile.
I’ve an road running acquaintance who commented on my long
distance running with this, "I do not know you are doing out
there Prohira but its not running." In this instance I could not
argue with her. It was 10:45 PM when we left KT with 7 hours and 15
minutes left before the final 48-hour cutoff and 11 ½ miles to
go including the last two climbs. It would be close at that pace. I
really do despise "flirting" with cutoff times. Soon after
KT there was another creek to cross with the water seeming colder
than the last time I got wet. The climb up onto the Porcupine trail
"crushed" me and left me a mere shell of what I’d
been. The mild reprieve that came along the almost level bench went
unnoticed. I remember this part of the course from the first day of
trail marking and knew it to be a lovely, flower filled meadow. That
was the image I tried to keep foremost in my head as I moved so
slowly up, up and up, walking 10 to 15 steps before breaking to
recover.

If that 12th pass up to the Cataract–Porcupine
saddle was tough what came next was for this weary Hardrock "wannabe"
was simply overwhelming. I must have been quite the sight to see
moving up to the Putman-Cataract Ridge at 12600 ft. At least my pacer
did not laugh at me (or at least not too much). Nearing the top I was
actually down on all fours, maybe fives, if my tongue hanging out and
dragging counted as an appendage. I thought the end would never come
and then it did. It did! It did and now it was all downhill from
there. We’d drop over 3000 ft in the next 7 miles and started
by moving cross-country then onto stone filled switchbacks where the
footing was marginal at best but gloriously down, down and down.

So
it was back down to the timberline and then the last aid station was
seen. It consisted of a simple tent and campfire set up out there in
the middle of nowhere. The two volunteers there were very cheerful
and confident of our success. I wanted to believe them and spent only
moments there leaving 3 minutes before 3 AM. There was still 5.9
miles to go. But I was licking my lips because I had a date with a
rock.

I could feel the surreal promise of the finish line
pulling us down, down and down on that narrow path of loose stone
almost running. A number of times I slipped, fell and ended up off
the trail with my legs below down the side of the mountain and my
face in the dirt. I know this disturbed Teresa who would stop and
turn around checking on me. Once I actually believe I’d fallen
asleep on my feet for I did not remember slipping or falling. I was
too tired and too excited about approaching Silverton in the pre dawn
to allow this to bother me. Down and down we went towards the sound
of water and through the skunk cabbage and willows brushing up
against our legs. And there it was! What a welcome sight!
Mineral Creek that lay just outside of town. The 20-yard passage
through the thigh deep water was aided by using the fixed rope there.
The lights in Silverton could be seen. I could feel the extra oxygen
in the air here down at 9300 ft. and began to shuffle along the Nute
Chute, the ledge trail along the face of a huge mine tailing.
Stopping long enough to empty my stomach down the chute (nausea had
returned but it couldn’t hurt me now) I continued to walk/
hobble/ stagger/ run (no not run) on the trail under the power lines
and through the aspens to the Shrine of the Mines road. The Shrine
statue was on my left and I made the right turn steeply downhill on a
trail that merged onto 10th street in town. I was back from where I
had started. All that was required of me was covering another two
blocks and then the Hardrock appeared exactly where I had last seen
it a couple of days before.

Almost 47 hours after the start
race director Dale Garland was there waiting to witness my return to
town and the "rock". My journey officially ended, as
did the race for all who had reached the rock before me, with a kiss.
I had been dreaming of that kiss for a long time. I had played out in
my head different scenarios for that final smooch; I’d embrace
the rock or peck at it playfully perhaps even perhaps even
passionately as I heard runners had in years past. That kiss would
complete the task. I asked myself, "shouldn’t that last
Hardrock act be as was big and grand as the last 100 miles had been?"
But when the time came to place lips to stone all I had for that rock
was a deep respect and admiration. A reverent kiss expressed it
all.

Finishing up this report two months after the fact I am
amazed at how fresh the memories of those mountains are. I returned
home exhausted and refreshed. I find it so easy to summon up images
of the first descent down into Cunningham when I felt on top of the
world. I vividly recall the climb of the final pitch up to Virginius
Gap and how satisfying that was. At times I can still feel the sun’s
warmth on my face as I felt it on my way up towards Oscar’s
Pass. And of course the memory of the finish is still fresh, intense
and easily relived. I’ve read that the sensation of pain is,
curiously, one of the hardest to summon from memory. I can attest to
that. I effortlessly remember the resurrection that dawn brings but
not as much the nervous depleted struggle that preceded daybreak. I
cannot as easily conjure up in vivid a fashion the ugliness of my
nausea or the discouragement that accompanies fatigue 40 hours
into my journey. I am grateful for this aspect of my short memory,
remembering best the good stuff. And as always lessons are always
presented, be they while on the trail or in real life. It is up to me
to decide whether I will learn from them or not. If not those lessons
often will be presented again and again until mastered or at least
accepted. Forgetting past lessons about salt and neglecting to
maintain my electrolyte levels resulted in some nausea making for a
difficult night. No big deal. The real tragedy in my book would be my
forgetting or even rejecting what was shown me during this endurance
event regarding reverence. This July I was reintroduced to the
concept of reverence; in the form of a deep respect for the mountains
and the people who live or lived there and for those accepting the
challenge that celebrated that life style. I like viewing the world
around me with “new eyes” and through a reverent filter.
Since my return from Colorado I’ve sought to recognize more and
more around me as wondrous, that to be respectful of and grateful
for. There are many, many parts of life deserving of that. A promise
to myself is that I will try my best when speaking of what those “new
eyes” see to use reverent lips when forming the words.

Happy
Trails,

John
Prohira

"When we walk to the edge of all the light
we have and take the step into the darkness of the unknown, we must believe that one of two things will happen. There
will be something solid for us to stand on, or we will be taught to fly."
-Patrick
Overton

"Your body will argue that there is no justifiable reason to continue. Your only recourse is to call on your spirit, which fortunately functions independently of logic."
-Tim Noakes